


Dangerous

by shinra_archives



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Bouncer Rude, Feelings Realization, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Stripper Reno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28956219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinra_archives/pseuds/shinra_archives
Summary: A bouncer contemplates the goings-on at the strip club he works for. A dancer contemplates him. Stuff happens.
Relationships: Reno/Rude (Compilation of FFVII)
Kudos: 13





	Dangerous

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on January 9th, 2007.
> 
> This is not my work. The original author is Somniac_Kiss on Livejournal(.)com. This account's purpose is to archive and preserve the original author's work on AO3 in its entirety. This account does not take any credit or ownership of the original work. Please contact if you are the original author and would like this work removed from AO3.

Rude's only been working the doors of this place for a month, but it hasn't taken him that long to figure out why the 'Bossman' wanted him for this shift, on these nights. The crowds showing up for the Cherry Bomb's swing seem to get pretty unruly. Considering what he's seen on his rounds, he doesn't blame them. Most of the guys here dance like the idiots male strippers have always been depicted as. Cherry's got class when he works his stage, though. The way he moves, a guy like Rude could almost be convinced that he's one of the best women in the trade. Even without the tits. Not that Rude swings that way, of course. Objective opinion, that's all.

He's caught the looks. Friendly hellos when Cherry comes in an hour early are expected, even the flirtation from everyone else. Everyone knows Rude's the unmovable mountain. He supposes that makes it more fun for them to hang all over him, knowing there are no consequences. Keep'em safe, take out the trash, don't let the rest of the trash in. He's not in a position to tell them off to the extent where they'll take him seriously. It's not like it bothers him, as long as they keep their hands where he can see them. Rude's asked, mostly out of curiosity, but nobody knows Cherry's name. They say the boss does, but that's not the kind of question you ask your boss. The other dancers are happy to tell him their names, even when he didn't ask. They'll give him that and a lot more, they say with a wink, trailing fingers over his shoulders. Rude just shakes his head. Erstwhile flirts with happy hands. The redhead never goes that far, but at the same time he goes a lot farther than any of them are allowed to. He doesn't flirt with Rude much. All friendly smiles, hellos, a free drink now and then, and that's it. But when he's on stage, Rude knows those bright summer tide blues are locked on him, even when they're focused on a client. And he's got no idea what to think of it. Rude isn't an overly paranoid man. Every situation requires a reasonable doubt. After one night when he was barely a week into the job, though, his doubts are only about himself.

_Those eyes had been smothering the bouncer for an hour now, from wherever the dancer went. They widened when Rude came around to lean against the wall during a smoke break, ever watchful of the behavior on the floor. Cherry's stance against the pole never wavered, however, as he shimmied down to a crouch and crawled toward a customer. When he surged up against the suit with a playful giggle, his eyes locked with the bouncer's for a split second before he fell again, plucking his proffered tip from the suit's hand with his teeth and creeping backward._

_That second said it all. Clothes off, breath hot, tongues searching, territory bites, skin, sweat, cologne, driving, surging, hands, kissing, scratching, delving fingers, bodies pinned to any surface they could find, grinding, straining sounds against each other's throats like their..._

_All in a second. It was enough to throw him askew. Rude found himself breathing a little harder than he should, found his fists clenched against his chest where his arms were crossed, found the air a little too sweet to be normal. Felt like he'd just been violated... and wanted it to happen again. That wasn't right. Rude didn't swing that way. He looked away and shifted his stance uncomfortably before deciding to hit his post at the door again. It was a good thing he didn't see the smirk on the dancer's face as he watched him go._

He's never seen the redhead look at anyone else that way. Rude watches for it, even though he doesn't. Maybe he's looking for proof that it's a common thing for Cherry to do, but he never sees it. A practiced wanton stare for the johns with the most cash, maybe... a play-with-me grin for his coworkers and buddies who come to see him off the clock... but never what Rude saw that night. And Rude hasn't seen it since. But he knows those eyes are still on him.

Tonight is no exception. To be honest, it's unnerving. Rude eventually swaps door duty with the new guy so he doesn't have to prowl the circuits anymore. It feels immature to be avoiding someone, but it shouldn't be such a big deal. It's not like he even knows the guy, and most of the problems on Cherry's shifts can be stopped outside, if the doorman knows what he's doing. And Rude does.

But the shift has to end sometime. After closing, the bouncers tend to stick around in case someone needs a ride home or an escort to the car. Rude hangs around the bar. Nobody really asks him for anything, but he stays anyway- you don't diss workplace traditions unless you wanna be lynched. What Rude isn't counting on this time is company. He knows it's Cherry as soon as the stool next to him creaks, even if he doesn't look. If he closes his eyes, it makes the pressure of those blues lift from him a little. Not much, but every little bit counts. The attempt at conversation is standard, although Rude doesn't give much feedback if any at all. Cherry likes the 2-gauge, is too much of a pussy to do it himself, does Rude have ink? Anywhere to go, how about some local sports team? Nothing comes back, though. The beer is freely offered and taken. Rude's got tomorrow off; why not? He still uses moderation- if Rude ever drinks for the effect, he does it alone or with a girl he knows he'll never see again. He's never been much of a guy for relationships. Or camaraderie, for that matter. Nobody's really been fond of his preferences or social ineptitude, and he'll happily go it alone.

After awhile, he wonders why he just told Cherry all of that. And shortly after that, he realizes that Cherry isn't even sitting there anymore- he's behind the bar, because everyone else has gone home. An apology, and Rude stands to leave- but when he turns, a hand goes under the tail of his blazer to hook a finger into the belt loop of his slacks. He's not going anywhere, apparently, and sits back down obediently. Cherry lets go and slips back to the other side of the bar; he has nowhere to be anytime soon, wants to hear a little more. Promises he won't bite.

By the time Rude sees the clock, it's almost four in the morning. Strange, he isn't tired. He stopped drinking a while ago and Cherry hasn't pushed him to drink any more- there went that suspicion. He's been listening to Cherry talk about himself for a couple of hours, offering a noncommittal grunt whenever the topic turns to him. Somehow, Cherry manages to translate even those into something relatively close to what Rude is thinking. It's a little creepy. For the first time in a long time, he feels comfortable, and in the span of five seconds, he remembers why he doesn't like being comfortable. The redhead has his shades off before he realizes what's happening, and out of instinct, he counters by grabbing the offending wrists. He squeezes until the glasses are dropped on the bar counter, and he glares with slate grey eyes. Rude usually sees fear, indignation, anger when he has to use force. He never sees this. _Harder, grind my bones together, throw me down, mark me, snap me, break me, call me yours and f-_

He lets go, a little shaken, and puts his shades back on. Cherry wants to know why Rude doesn't let people look at him, even when they see him- wants to know why he won't be touched or listened to. Rude stays silent- he wants to leave, but he was told to sit, and sit he'll do until released, and nobody understands why, and he likes it that way, even if he doesn't. Cherry is tapping now, some rhythmless beat on the counter, staring and thinking. Until he understands.

And then Rude is ordered to sit in the VIP room and think about what he did. You don't manhandle a dancer like that when you were hired to keep the cool around them, goes the scolding. He sits, arms crossed, scowl set, shades hiding the rest. He's kind of pissed at the fact that the little schmuck thinks he can order him around this way just because he was hired for that shift- but he won't leave. Wants to go home, have an alone-time beer, lie awake in bed another night and daydream, but he can't. And he kind of doesn't want to, anyway. His jaw twitches when the light dims. He turns his head to glare at the door when a disgustingly catchy sort of technoise tinkles out of the speakers. He doesn't make another move when the dancer joins him in confinement.

Rude is a statue. He stares straight ahead when it starts, even though he notices the details. The half-lidded eyes, the loose grenadine hair, the demure slump, the meek steps forward, the drop to the knees on the deep blue carpet. These places always make the VIP rooms look chintzier than a fancy hotel. His eyes narrow behind the shades when the dancer crawls forward, and he twitches in an unexpected place when he realizes why Cherry's hands are inseparable. Nobody knows how to work a pair of real handcuffs the right way unless they're cops or the best hookers... or Rude. He doesn't make small talk about it, though. And he doesn't notice the redhead now at his feet, even though he does. He doesn't swing that way, and he's a little offended by this, because Cherry didn't argue at the bar when Rude stated that out loud. He doesn't think about that sort of thing. Even though he's thought about it every night since he first got that look.

He's offended. But then those butterfly hands creep up his leg, and he feels the chain from the cuffs catch at the fabric of his slacks, and he doesn't care. Even though he does. Cherry creeps up to his lap, wriggling and touching everywhere but where it counts, silent and flowing with a body that could have been deadly in the wrong alley in a different life. Cherry never touches him where it counts, strays away from his face, keeps those beautiful Jamaican shallows half-closed and unburdening. Rude knows the rules. No touching, no asking, no harassing. His arms remain across his chest, although he twitches here and there.

But fingers run across his arms, and those eyes are boring back into him. The way you leave me wanting more, purr the speakers and the eyes. The movement flows on, drifting around him, behind him, above and before him, the scent of a little booze, a little sweat and the last faded whiffs of a dancer's cologne coating his throat and sinuses. Rude knows the rules, even though he doesn't anymore. His hand shoots out to grab the chain between the cuffs, pulling upward and rendering Cherry helpless. But Cherry isn't afraid the way girls have always been. Cherry stares, shimmies up from his knees, works Rude's arm into his insidious dance. _That's what I want you for._

Rude is standing, and the dancer sags against him until he lets go. Once relatively free, the hands flutter across his chest and around, until his jacket is pulled away. Rude notices it fall against a wall from the corner of his eye, and he shifts on his feet. He stops them again before they can unfasten the second button of his shirt. This isn't being ta- no, it's not. Nobody's gonna know, and of course Cherry knows that Rude doesn't swing that way. Begrudgingly, the shirt comes off. Rude has to sit down again to handle the situation. It's every bit as intense as The Split Second and harder. The biting is like alarms, the sounds are real, the skin is hot, the breath is wet. When I am in your arms, the eyes plead, turned up to Rude's face. The bound hands reach, now tentative, the shades come off, and they stay off this time. The kiss is spicy, fermented like cider and bourbon, the kind of jaded daydream every first kiss ought to be, and Rude bites. He tastes the blood from biting too hard, and when Cherry surges forward like a tidal wave instead of flinching back and cursing, it all seems to align with the stereotypical cerebral click. _Know I will come to harm._

Everything here is right. The hair catching on his piercings and eyebrows and sticking to his lips as Cherry dips further- it smells like cigarettes and some kind of rose-scented girly shampoo, and Rude decides that the way it feathers over his face is perfect. He even flicks his tongue out to grab a lock and suck at it. But mostly to hold it in his teeth as he jerks his head to tug at Cherry's scalp. It's like opening a trap door to treasure, doing that and hearing the whine from somewhere around his neck. The biting is too much, even though it isn't. The offending mouth trails down to lick delicately at a nipple ring, sucks it in, champs at it like a bit, jerks with the same lack of finesse the hair received. Rude's first noise is a gutteral groan, and he roils in his chair to keep himself controlled.

The invading mouth doesn't even bother with the rest of him. Impatient little brat, but then, so is Rude. Whatever the doll was playing is long since gone, but it still whispers inside Rude's eardrums. The things you do aren't good for my health. His breath hitches when he hears a chain clink as the hands scrabble at his security belt, at the wings, the dry warmth diving into his skivvies. He doesn't care when he hears cloth ripping. He can buy new fucking pants, he just... no, he doesn't want it over with like he always has before. He can't put a finger on the depth of the situation, but he can't think of it. He just knows it'll happen again, again and again under a different pretense. _The moves you make, you make for yourself._

But there's nothing to think of when your mind gets turned inside out. Which is exactly what happens when a mouth covers his cock and works it like Cherry's stage on a Friday night. Motherfuck motherFUCK it's hot up there, cold down there, and when Rude can see straight, even though he really can't, he sort of sees the most beautiful sight in the world- the bratty smirk wrapped around his shaft like a slap bracelet, the butterfly hands twisted backwards with the chain of the cuffs pulled around the base of Rude's cock. The means you use aren't meant to confuse. Fancy new toy, that, is all Rude can think, but for some reason, the thought makes him laugh. Laughter and gasping and growling and metal, and an uncharacteristic whimper when the tip of Cherry's tongue probes at the tip to see how far down the slit it can slither. Not far, but it's a hell of a feeling nonetheless. _Although they do, they're the ones that I would use._

Rude's never gotten that close so fast in his life, even when he romances his own hand. And speaking of hands, they both twitch up to grab properly-sized clumps of red hair and drag Cherry backward. Too close, Rude doesn't like when it goes too fast. The cuffs are unwound obediently, and the doll hangs limply from his hands, licking swollen lips and staring up at him with what seem like spots from a freak aqua strain of phosphorus. Rude pulls him up to his lap, tastes himself when he bites, takes his hands as far as they'll reach. Cherry's pinstripes have got to go, he's more than happy to squirm his way out of them, but... aren't dancers supposed to wear thongs or something under a costume? Not for a self-appointed private show. Makes sense. Shoes are kicked across the room, fabric pulled, everything's off. It's all in the open, except his fingers slipping into Cherry's mouth. Cherry sucks like the little slut he is, and Cherry's blues have him pinned to the fucking chair, and Rude can't see anything else, and for a split second, he recognizes The Look.

That second says it all. Clothes off, breath hot, tongues searching, territory bites, skin, sweat, cologne, driving, surging, hands, kissing, scratching, delving fingers, bodies pinned to any surface they could find, grinding, straining sounds against each other's throats like their...

Cocks... pressed together at an awkward angle that makes the need all the more apparent.

And it's longer than a second. The Look is rock solid when Cherry rolls his hips, rubbing it all down. And Rude knows he can get that face whenever he wants it, knows it's all he ever wants to see and more. Not that he's ever seen gay porn, but he's busted up enough of it in the bathrooms to know what goes where- eavesdrops enough to know what you need, because it's not like he swings that way, even though he places the conversations against Cherry's face and uses his imagination when he's home alone.

They say the mix of spit and prejack has some staying power. Rude pulls his fingers, drifts them down by the tips, brushes Cherry's shaft with the ball of his thumb and snags a second at the sack before taking a step up to the plate. Yep, still wet. In goes a finger, eyes to eyes, and maybe he's got it right because the doll surges up with a gasp. Another finger, skin to skin, and Cherry's biting. Stop teasing, he's not a girl, he doesn't need the foreplay, but Rude doesn't really have a chance to retort anyway. They're not a girl's hips, but they know where they're going- they know how to act like hands when Cherry doesn't have any, and Rude's hand is prodded out of the way by his own dick. Never thought the tables would turn there, buddy- some betrayal, he thinks for a second before the initial pop- it's not even a sound, but beyond that, it worked just like one. And then all the way down, but at least Cherry tries to take it slow- he's dealing with a (contextual) virgin after all.

The noise is mutual, mouths to ears, and at first Rude thinks Cherry is trying to choke him because the hands make a beeline as far as they can go around his neck. But after some fumbling and a punch in the eye, sorry about that, Cherry's got his hands above Rude's head and then around his neck, clinging like a girl would. For a seasoned sex icon, Cherry fumbles a lot, that's because he wants it instead of wants it, there's a difference. It's all turning into mumbling, moaning, and the rhythm picks up. How flexible is he? Rude reaches behind his own head to grab the chain, pull Cherry's arms ALL the way back, and Cherry cusses fit to turn a trucker's ears red, drowns out the joints popping. But it can be done, Rude knows how to do it, and Cherry's no worse for the wear.

Hands behind his back now, still writhing up to Rude like an acid wave, Cherry kisses him. There's no daydream about it. It's hard and Rude can feel their teeth gnashing behind their lips, and this is how being drunk is supposed to feel. The tongues and teeth and arms and clinging and squeezing is enough to overload the CPU of a Cray. It's a wonder he can manage to get his hand where he wants it to go, curling fingers gingerly around the redhead's shaft. All he's ever known was his own- maybe that's why this one feels smoother, delicate, more alive, hot to the touch. But he treats it like his own backwards anyway, because Cherry insists he's not a girl, except he's making some awfully girly sounds. Rude hated when women made noise like that- they always managed to sound fake. Cherry ought to sound fake, knowing what he is, but he doesn't, and Rude can almost believe it's not an act. It makes him drive faster, grip harder, his hand is wet, and when his ear splits, it's worth it because that was _his_ name Cherry just screamed into it, not Tony or Jake or Bubba or Bambi or God. And fuck if that doesn't take him even further, and it doesn't take long. He even snaps the chain of the cuffs apart when he gets there.

Finding a hundred ways to milk yourself dry with a dancer in an empty strip club is a fun hobby. By the time they finally give it up, they've christened the catwalk, the bar, the stairway, two couches in the lounge, the bathroom, and probably the kitchen- it's a little hard to remember. When they hit the VIP room again to retrieve the evidence, dawn's hit and Rude is having a little trouble standing. He'd say he's gonna feel this in the morning, but it's already morning and he already feels it. He figures that may have something to do with why they end up crumpled on the floor with pants and arms as pillows, too tired for another go. That doesn't mean he doesn't get a sore little twitch heralding another exhausted boner when he surveys his damage. _You know by now, it takes a lot to see me hurt..._ Cherry's wrists are red and raw against the broken cuffs, most of his fair skin is candy-sprinkled now with bites, bruises, welts and scratches, his hair is a tangled fright, and Rude knows some of it is stuck to his own body. He stares as he brushes the hair with his fingers, and those pretty blues stare right back. Rude decides he swings this way after all, as long as it's Cherry at the end of the rope. And Cherry's voice is as raw as his wrists, and tiny with exhaustion and safety and half-sleep.

"When we're off the clock... you can call me Reno."

_And I wouldn't have it any other way._   
_You wouldn't let me anyway._


End file.
